"I have something," said Talbot, suddenly, "if you will take it, Brooke; but perhaps you will think it only a bother." "No, Talbot, lad, brother--brother in arms, and comrade of mine!--nothing that you can give shall be regarded as other than a comrade's pledge." Talbot withdrew her hand, which Brooke had been holding all this time. "Here is something," said she. "It will do better than anything else." "What is it?" asked Brooke, who could not see in the gloom what it was that she offered. "A ring," said Talbot, in a voice that had sunk to a whisper. "A ring," repeated Brooke. "Is it your ring, Talbot? Then put it on my finger with your own hands, comrade, and I swear to you by a soldier's word that it shall never leave me, either in life or death." Talbot made no reply, but put the ring, which she had detached from her own finger, upon the little finger of Brooke's left hand. Not a word was said by either, and there was now a long silence, which was finally broken by Brooke. "Talbot," said he, "don't you think you can sleep a little?" "I'll try." "Do. If you could only sleep a little, I should feel very glad indeed." "I'll try," said Talbot again, "and you must not suppose that I am awake." Talbot now drew off for a little distance, while Brooke remained as before, and was left to his own meditations. All was still within, and outside the sounds gradually lessened, until at length they were heard no more. Slowly the time passed, and to Brooke it had never in his life seemed so long. Not a sound escaped from Talbot. Was she asleep? "Talbot, lad!" said Brooke, in a low voice. "Well, Brooke," was the gentle reply. "Have you been asleep?" "Oh--well--a little." "No, Talbot," said Brooke, "you have not been asleep. And you say that you were merely to make it pleasant for me. You are full of anguish, Talbot, but you keep up a cheerful tone so as not to add to my burdens. You see I know it all, Talbot, and understand you thoroughly, so there need not be any further dissimulation." "Brooke," said Talbot, "you are feverish from anxiety, and fanciful. Be yourself. Sing one of your droll songs. Talk nonsense. If you go on in this mournful strain, you will make me break down utterly." At this Brooke drew a long breath. "Forgive me, Talbot," he said. "I really don't know what has come over me. If I were alone I could sleep as sound as a top, but anxiety about another is a different thing. Still, you are right, and I mean to turn the conversation to some other subject. A song, did you say? Very well. By-the-bye, did you ever hear this? "'Oh, Jenny Jones was a lovely gal, And her mother worked a mangle; She fell in love with a fine yonng lad, Who played on the triangle.'" Brooke hummed this, and then stopped. "I never heard it before," said Talbot. "Sing the rest. Now you are yourself again. Whatever you feel, Brooke, don't speak of it, but laugh, and jest, and sing old scraps of songs."